The Obsidian-Scaled Dragon
by ZenaraTheDragon
Summary: How does a wounded fighter cope with a slightly obnoxious dragon? Better than I just made it sound. AU, takes place kinda North-ish of Alagaesia? I'll figure it out.
1. An Arrow is Lost and a Stone is Found

Disclaimer: I own the universe. But I let others (BBC/ C. Paolini) think they own little bits of it.

**In Which an Arrow is Lost, and a Stone is Found**

John watched the deer, waiting for it to stand still. He had an arrow nocked in his bow, ready to draw and fire from his seat behind the rocky outcropping. He hoped he wouldn't have to move; his leg had been acting up all through this hunting trip.

Drawing his bow, John took aim- right at the deer's throat- and fired.

The arrow struck home, and the deer dropped with a strangled cry, sending the rest of the herd bounding away right towards John.

One stag tried to leap over the rocks. It stumbled, and one sharp hoof caught John in the leg. The bad one. John yelped and instinctively kicked at the creature, hurting his leg even more.

"Damn animal," John muttered, swearing more as he pulled back the torn leather, looking at the slightly bleeding bruise underneath. He watched the fleeing deer with a mix of resentment and sorrow.

Stumblingly, John got up and limped over to the dead deer. He pulled out his arrow, or what was left of it. The deer had fallen right on top of a rock, snapping the shaft in two. John glared mutely at the broken weapon.

"Today isn't really my day, is it?" he sighed.

John looked across the trees toward the small hunting sled he'd brought. He used it to carry home what he caught- his leg prevented him from doing anything else.

John stared at it, trying not to focus on the pain in his leg. The little sled seemed so far... Oh, well. It was better to walk over there and bring the sled back than to carry a hundred-pound deer over to the sled.

John sighed and started on his limping mission.

Towing the deer-laden sled, John began his trek back home. It was getting dark, though, and he'd ventured into a mostly-unknown part of the forest. He would have to find shelter for the night.

Looking through the trees, John thought he saw the mouth of a cave, darker than the surrounding gloom.

Pushing through the undergrowth, he approached the rock opening. Peering inside, John saw a pile of moss and what looked like leather scraps, arranged in a thick and vaguely circular pillow. On the pillow was a stone.

About two feet long and oval, it sat almost regally atop its brownish bed, gleaming obsidian with a shimmering of silver across its surface. Slowly, John reached out gently touched its surface, almost afraid he would damage the delicate balance of the shining darkness. It was smooth, and its temperature hovered on the border between cool and warm. The stone resolutely ignored him, continuing to shimmer silver in the fading light.

Carefully, John picked up the stone, taking a few scraps of moss and leather from the pillow to wrap it in. Moving the rest of the stone's cushion, John pulled his sled inside the cave and set up his bedroll for the night.

**A/N**

So, whad'ya think? I know it starts kinda dark, but I promise it'll get better.

Review, please! It lets me know whether it's a fic worth continuing.


	2. A Stone May Not Be a Stone

Disclaimer: I own the voices in my head and my computer._ (I resent that.)_ Shut up, you!

**In Which a Stone May Not be a Stone After All**

John bolted up, breaking from sleep in a cold sweat. He gritted his teeth as his leg twinged in response to his dream- the leering face of the Urgal as it swung its cruelly spiked mace at his leg.

Looking outside, John saw the first rays of the dawn creeping over the mountains. He sighed. Well, it wasn't like he would've gotten any more sleep anyways.

John slowly got up, stifling a gasp at the cold morning air. Packing up his few things, he pulled his sled outside, double-checking the bindings on the deer and the stone. In his head, John went over the trail he took home- not too many sharp twists and cliffs: he couldn't maneuver them.

As John limped home and the day grew longer, he found his thoughts straying over and over to the black stone he was towing behind him. He couldn't help but think that it wasn't meant for him; that he'd disturbed some- some ritual or something by taking that stone. But he also thought that it wouldn't have been sitting there, unattended, if it was important.

_Of _course_ it's important, just look at it! _John had told himself, after hearing that last run through his thoughts.

Finally, John's small house came into view over a hill. John sighed, glad the rest of the way was downhill. For a moment, he thought childishly about riding the sled down the slope covered in late-summer grasses, but he knew the bottom of the slope was covered in small rocks that would make for a rough landing for his leg.

John gazed tiredly at the sled. "Damn my leg," he muttered. He could've been home half a day ago, but instead of walking, he had to_ limp_.

"Damn the war, damn those Urgals, and _damn my leg_!"

* * *

Never was he so glad to see his small, neat house as that afternoon, when he postponed all chores to sit on his bed with one of his few books, occasionally glancing at the strange new addition to his home.

* * *

After several days of normal life (caring for his two chickens, Donovan and Anderson, and his horse, Molly) plus careful examinations of the black stone he'd found, John was frustrated with this new mystery. The thing had taken up residence in the far corner of his bedroom when he wasn't looking (_not_ gazing) at it in the sunlight.

"What _are_ you?" John asked the stone finally.

It squeaked in reply.

John drew back in alarm. "Oh no," he muttered.

The stone squeaked again, rocking a little bit too.

"No. Oh, tell me I did not bring home some kind of egg-"

The egg cracked a little in spite.

John backed up, warily watching the slivery cracks spread on the black surface.

The egg squeaked, then emitted a high-pitched growl, then hissed. Now vehemently rocking its egg back and forth, the hatchling inside pressured the shell constantly, spiderwebbing cracks over the egg.

With a final, triumphant mini-yowl, the hatchling stumbled free of its confines, shaking out its various limbs victoriously.

John stared at the hatchling. It was as obsidian black as the egg had been, with just as silvery of an undertone on it. Its back was strangely lumpy, though-

_Ah. That's why_, John thought as the hatchling stretched out long black wings.

Re-folding its wings more comfortably, the hatchling tried to take a step and promptly fell on its face, almost accordion-folding its long, graceful neck.

At the hatchling's indignant squeak, John knelt down to help the little thing. Its head twisted upwards, fixing John with pale, silver-green eyes. It sniffed disdainfully and untangled itself grumpily while John recovered from the force of the glare.

"Why won't you let me help you?" John asked it quietly.

The hatchling yawned, revealing sharp white teeth. Looking around the room, it ambled cautiously over to John's bed below the window, pawing at a beam of sunlight that fell over the edge. It crouched down, wings spreading indecisively, then boldly leaped up, somehow spreading its small self over the entire sun-covered part of the bed.

"You can't sleep there, that's where I sleep," John said bemusedly.

The hatchling gave him an unmistakable look of, Get Real.

John couldn't help but smile as he watched the little thing try to act tough. Walking over, he tentatively reached out a hand to the hatchling. It sniffed delicately at him, then evidently decided to accept affection rather than biting him.

The last thing John felt was a flash of fire running through him, before silver obscured his vision and he crumpled forward.

John woke to a pair of anxious silver-green eyes mere inches from his face. He got up stiffly, noting that a significant amount of time had passed since, well, since the little creature had hatched. The creature...

John looked at the small black hatchling, wondering what it was. There were legends about winged, scaled creatures in the lands to the South; legends of dragons, and their Riders.

"Is that what you are? A dragon?" John asked.

_No. What I am is hungry._

John's eyes widened at the unexpectedly deep voice that echoed inside his mind. "That was you," he said to the hatchling. The little dragon rolled its eyes at him.

_Obviously. Now if you'll stop being an idiot, I'd like some food!_

"Well, er, what do you eat?"

The dragon bared its sharp teeth.

"...Ah. Right." John got up and headed for the small kitchen, glad for the deer he'd shot a couple days ago.

Then he turned back.

"No, hang on," he said, glaring at the hatchling, "You're a bloody _dragon_, and I can hear you speak inside my head! _What_ is going on?!"

_You're my Rider, obviously. Speaking is easy, I just went through a couple of your memories to learn the words. _

"Okay, but- Rider?"

_Of course. You've heard the stories, of dragons in Alagaesia. In the south. There are still a couple around-not a lot, by any measure- but still a few. Now, I suppose I'll have to get my own breakfast, won't I?_

The hatchling leaped down and walked out into the larger room. John followed it, mostly out of stunned confusion.

When it- well, he, John supposed- saw the dried and cured remains of the deer, he squeaked triumphantly and snatched up a piece, tearing at the dried meat ineffectively.

_How do you eat this stuff?_ he growled.

"It's called chewing, you should try it sometime," John said, pulling the meat away from the hatchling and using his knife to cut it into smaller pieces. The hatchling watched with something approaching gratitude, pouncing on each piece as it was cut.

"Well, there you go," John said, nudging the small pile of meat towards the little dragon.

The hatchling curled one long black wing around the pile of food, thoroughly ignoring John for several minutes.

When the wing was removed, only a couple scraps of the meat were left. The hatchling blinked a few times, then wobbled sleepily to the patch of sunlight on John's bed. Shredding the blanket a little as he scrambled up.

"You could at least try not to rip it," John protested feebly. The hatchling snorted and curled up.

"...What's your name, I wonder," John mused to himself.

_Sherlock._

* * *

A/N: Well! I finally got around to posting the second chapter! Reviews make me happy, by the way! :)


	3. Flight is Achieved

Note: This chapter is more Sherlock's POV. I think I'll switch between his and John's thoughts/focus every couple chapters.**  
**Disclaimer: I may own the description of Sherlock as a dragon, and the plot. That's about it.

**In Which Flight is Achieved**

_John is interesting_, thought Sherlock to himself, nitpicking over one silver-edged black wing. _He is not dumb_. The little dragon considered the other creatures in the World he knows as Home- the four-legs-long-hair Horse, Molly, the two-wing-two-leg Chickens, Anderson and Donovan (remarkably similar Names, he thought), and several non-responsive but alive Plants of various importance to John.

Sherlock had learned quickly that destroying any of the plants in the ordered-grass meadow made John upset. He didn't see why John couldn't eat the tall-dark-plants he liked to perch in; their leaves were tasty enough, if one _liked_ plants.

In fact, several items were, apparently, 'off-limits' to him. John's Bed, if he couldn't keep his claws from tearing the coverings on it, the dark-cold-food place, because John didn't like him tearing down all the dried meat in search of _yak_ ("And why would I have yak meat, anyways? How do you even know what a yak _is_?"), and the horse-bed-chicken-perch. The animals didn't like his smell, and, as he told them, he didn't like theirs. After a few days, the chickens had gotten used to him, and Molly, the horse, seemed to have developed a strange affection for him, even letting him ride on her back in the wild-grass-wide-sky meadow.

Sherlock folded his wing again. It had gotten 5.34 John-thumb-lengths longer since he hatched. The rest of him was longer, too, and his back was almost past John's knee.

Sherlock yawned again, gazing at John as he walked in the door.

"I thought I told you to stay off my bed," the human in question sighed, watching as Sherlock stretched his wings out in the late afternoon sun.

Sherlock yawned again, negligently extending his claws into the blanket. _Oh._ _Right. __Sorry, Jawn_.

Despite the hatchling's intelligence, he couldn't quite pronounce John's name right with his mental voice.

John frowned and reached over to push the dragon off. Sherlock squeaked in protest as he flapped a couple times to prevent an ignominious landing on the packed dirt floor.

"When are you going to fly? You've got the wings for it," John asked unexpectedly.

_Soon_, Sherlock snapped.

"Don't bite my head off, I just thought flying might help with your boredom," John muttered, dropping his leather gathering-bag on the floor. Sherlock sniffed at it, remembering at the last minute that John didn't like his claw-marks on things.

_I have enough things to do for now, Jawn. _

"Sure you do. Which is why you tried to chop down the tree at the edge of the field."

Sherlock gazed smugly out the window at said tree, the bottom of which was deeply marked by his claws.

_I wanted a fort beneath the branches, _the little dragon explained.

"No. You've been bored for days. Come on." John lifted Sherlock off the bed. Sherlock let out an undragonly squeak and flailed around, trying to escape John's arms while not injuring him.

"Outside!"

* * *

Sherlock _harrumphed_ and launched himself off John's chest with his hindlegs. He spread his wings, catching the air and rising above the stable within seconds.

"So you _can_ fly!" he heard John yell from below.

_Of course! Why do you think I haven't been sleeping!_

Sherlock dove, nearly scraping the roof of John's house and pulled up just close enough to John to make him duck.

"You've been practicing at night?"

_Yes._

"Sherlock, some of the people in the village have seen you, then!"

_So?_

"There's a price on the head of any dragon outside Alagaesia," Sherlock's sharp ears heard John's frantic hiss.

_..._

_You didn't tell me that._

Sherlock flapped twice, effectively bringing himself out of hearing range from John.

_Not coming down_, he answered what he knew would be John's question.

_Damn dragon! I swear..._

_You swear what?_

_Huh?!_

Sherlock smiled toothily at his Rider's confusion.

_The mindspeak works both ways._

_You mean I've been apparently babbling to empty air when I could have talked to you like this?!_

_Yes._

A plethora of hitherto-unknown words bombarded Sherlock. _Jawn_, he broke in, _What's a village? You referenced one earlier. What is it?_

_It's a collection of houses, with different people living in them. There are usually shops, and people barter for things they need that they can't make themselves. _John seemed a little surprised at the question. Sherlock figured that, because of his rather deep mindvoice, he sounded older than he was, and John didn't always remember that he was only a couple days old.

_Sherlock, why don't you come back down. I don't want anyone to see you flying around- _Sherlock missed the rest of John's sentence as he folded his wings and fell to avoid an unidentified object hurtling at him at high speed.

* * *

**A/N: **So, updates may be more frequent now that I actually have an idea where this is going. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far!


	4. Things are Decided

A/N: So, for those of you who've asked (or had unasked questions) (Thanks for the question/review, **hogwartsmockingjaysilvertong ue**!), I figured out that this is kind of an AU Eragon timeline, where the Varden and elves lost a battle, I'm not yet sure which one, but Eragon and Saphira are now in hiding, Firnen's egg was stolen, and (as referenced in the previous chapter) there is a price on the head of any dragon not under Galbatorix's command. Also, I own nothing but my minions and the voices in my head!

**In Which Certain Things are Decided**

John recognized the arcing flight of an arrow just as Sherlock fell out of the sky. Without looking for the archer or grabbing his walking stick, John was running through the field towards where the dragon would have fallen.

_Sherlock!_

_I'm all right, Jawn._ Sherlock's voice was shaky but present. John sighed slightly as he ran, almost tripping over a relatively-unharmed Sherlock.

"You're okay? The arrow missed?"

_Yes._

John knelt down and pulled the little dragon into a hug.

_Jawn_, Sherlock complained, _I'm fine_.

John let go. "This time." He looked behind him, switching to telepathy for fear he'd been followed. _Whoever tried to shoot you will be looking for the body soon, he said. We'll need to either hide you or explain why you shouldn't be killed._

_Let's go explain, then._

And Sherlock was trotting through the crushed path John had made, in the general direction the arrow had come from.

_Let me go first_, John said, seeing a small, dangerous-looking crowd around his house. _They'll be less likely to shoot me_.

John approached the Captain of the Guard, who had brought several armed soldiers along.

"John. Something was seen flying over your land, just minutes ago. Do you have any idea what it was?"

"Hello to you too, Lestrade. Yes, I do have an idea what it is, but you can't hurt him."

Lestrade ran a hand through his gray-flecked hair. "Look. You know as well as I that the king of Alagaesia is offering a price for... Certain creatures, ever since the war he fought." He turned. "Search the forest," he called to the guards. They left. "Let's settle this without a big show. Don't protect the beast-"

"There's nothing that says we have to collect the price," John broke in, almost begging.

"No. There isn't. But dragons are dangerous creatures. Even if you feel sorry for it, or even if we didn't turn it over, we couldn't have it running about town!"

_I would _not_ 'run about town'!_

John's mouth twitched in a half-smile.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, there's someone you should meet, I think. But you have to listen to him."

"John, what is this about?"

_Sherlock, come here. Slowly, please? If you could?_

Sherlock stepped out of the field.

Lestrade swore and reached for his sword.

"No! No, that's Sherlock," John placed a restraining hand on the soldier's arm.

"That's the dragon, John," Lestrade said. "You better have a really good explanation for why you're defending a wanted beast. I thought you'd just seen it around?"

_I am not a beast_.

"Wha- it talks?!"

"He's a he, not an it."

_And I'd appreciate you referring to me as such_.

Lestrade swore again. "Here I thought we had a rogue dragon, that we could collect a price on, but no! We've got a Rider too!" He laughed without humor. "John, this should be sorted out soon. As in, what are we going to do? I can't exactly throw a member of a legendary order into jail, can I? At least, not without being torn to shreds," he added, nodding to Sherlock.

_Shreds would be a merciful end for such an attempt_, Sherlock assured him.

Lestrade gulped and continued. "So how do we do this, John? I'm not willing to tip off the spies. You probably know that. But I'm Captain of the Guard, it's my job to keep the city safe. If your dragon stirs up trouble, he'll have to go- you may have to go with him." The gray-haired guard shook his head. "You tell me, John."

John locked eyes with Sherlock, communicating silently for a minute before he spoke.

"I've lived here since I came back from the war."

"Yes."

"I've never caused trouble, in fact been useful as a medic in a couple situations?"

"The outbreak of moss fever a few years back, I remember."

"I can convince Sherlock to stay out of trouble if you convince your guards to ignore him."

Lestrade considered. "Well, I'm not going to turn him in, and I'm not going to kill him, so I suppose that's fair." He sighed. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this. Anderson! Donovan! Let's get back to the Keep, there's something we need to discuss."

_Anderson and Donovan? Like the chickens?_ Sherlock asked in surprise.

_Yeah, but don't tell them that_, John grinned.


	5. Family Ties are Revealed

A/N: Look! a Chapter! okay... it's short... but it's something. I'll put in a real update soon.  
Disclaimer: I own only the essay I was supposed to be working on when I worote this.

**In Which Family Ties are Revealed**

Sherlock grew in leaps and bounds, staying inquisitive in his quest to keep from becoming bored. Truthfully, it was John's quest too; Sherlock was a true terror when he was bored. The city guard quickly became used to his presence, convinced by Lestrade that Sherlock could stay, unmolested. It was a relief to be able to take the growing dragon out with him, John found. That way he'd know what was being destroyed.

Sherlock was always getting into trouble, following the Guards around and providing commentary on crimes, usually ending up correct. John didn't question this- Sherlock had read his mind often enough. It would be easy to find a murderer.

John had abandoned his cane, his limp all but gone. His injury had mystified both himself and other Healers; his leg hadn't been injured- his shoulder had. John had grimly shrugged it off as magic of some sort.

_Jawn! Stop thinking depressing things!_ Sherlock had learned to pronounce John's name correctly, but still used his adorable way of saying it to get what he wanted. Wide, silver-green eyes and that cute plea could win the hardest heart, even if the dragon wasn't a tiny hatchling anymore.

_Sorry. I was just wondering why you're attracted to murders._

_They're _interesting_! _Sherlock appeared at John's side, his head now reaching higher than the human's.

_I'm surprised the crime rate hasn't gone down, what with you swooping in on the offenders_, John noted, sighing.

_Me too. I suppose human stupidity is greater than I'd previously imagined, _Sherlock noted with a draconic frown. _Oooh. Shiny! _The black dragon hurried off to investigate a market stall.

"Sherlock! You need money!" John called aloud, jogging after him.

_How much?! _John heard Sherlock ask the slightly-terrified stall keeper.

John shoved the dragon out of the way. "Sorry about that. He's easily disctacted."

_Am not._

They continued through town in silence for a while, before Sherlock looked up. _The sun will be on the rooftops by now. I'm going to sleep_. The dragon yawned widely, displaying an impressive array of sharp white teeth, before taking off and winging up to one of the taller buildings.

_Don't collapse any ceilings, now. You're bigger that you used to be._

John smiled at the dragon's discontented mumblings.

"John H. W.?" a voice asked from behind him. Turning around, John saw a black-armored guard standing there. Then he saw the young woman behind the guard. It was her who'd spoken.

"Yes?" John eyed the pair warily.

"Come with us, please." the woman led the way without waiting for John. The guard continued to look menacing, so John walked after the girl, rolling his eyes.

* * *

"Really. The city mansion?" John asked the young woman exasperatedly. "No run-down tanning shops this time?"

The woman half-smiled. "The city mansion, _this_ time," she said. "Go on inside." She stayed on the porch.

Inside, John was greeted by a scribe. "This way." The man said, turning primly down a corridor.

The door at the end was opened for him, and John stepped inside to see a man at a desk.

"Mycroft." John grinned. "Really? You have to escort me here?"

Mycroft looked up. "Good to see you, too, brother," he said. "It's been too long."

* * *

A/N: OOOooo! Cliffhanger! Not really though. forgive me, i had no sleep and am crashing from a coffee high.


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